TUESDAY

She had texted Iselin that last day at the cabin after finding her note with her number, replying, "Delighted to find your lovely note, thank you. Safe home, beautiful girl. Love, Eira ❤️."

She saved her number in her phone under "Fjellrype" (ptarmigan) with a small bird emoji, but she hadn't contacted her; some things needed time to process.

Her mobile vibrated as she arranged fresh flowers from bunches and Oliver busied himself in the kitchen.

The phone lay on the table, and her heart skipped a beat… then started racing to make up for it when she saw the name.

"I hope this isn't too forward. I've been trying to work up the courage. The ptarmigan misses the mountain ❤️."

She was staring at the screen as Oliver walked in, and seeing her face said, "Something interesting?"

She turned her phone to show him, and he crossed the room to stand behind her, hands resting on her shoulders.

He knew all about her cabin weekend with Iselin; she’d filled him in with all the details, and they’d both enjoyed her memory as she’d become part of their fantasies.

"Reply," he said. "Invite her."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." His hands moved down, cupping her breasts through her blouse, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

"I want to meet the girl you described and see for myself if she's as captivating as you say."

Eira leaned back against him, feeling his arousal pressing against her back.

She typed with one hand while the other caressed his cock.

"The mountain misses the ptarmigan. When can you come?"

The reply came a few seconds later, as if Iselin had been holding her breath waiting.

"This weekend? Kystbussen (the coast bus) takes about four and a half hours with the ferries, but I’m not sure I want to impose on your personal space."

Oliver read over her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. "Tell her she’s more than welcome to stay here."

"Oliver …"

"Tell her, Eira. I want her here … in our bed if she's willing. I want to cook for you both, cook for us. I want to know her."

Eira typed, her fingers trembling.

"You’re not imposing. We have room, but I should warn you - we may try to convince you to sleep elsewhere. Here’s the address for the taxi from the station. Come Friday evening. Oliver wants to meet you."

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: "I'll be there. Thank you. Both of you."

FRIDAY

She arrived at half past six.

Eira had spent the afternoon in a state of nervous anticipation that Oliver found adorable; she had changed outfits three times, finally settling on a simple black dress that hugged her curves without trying too hard.

Oliver wore dark jeans and a beige sweater that stretched across his broad shoulders, smelling of citrus and something uniquely him.

When the doorbell rang, Eira's hand fluttered to her throat. Oliver caught it, brought her fingers to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. "Breathe, Eira. I'll go."

His chest tightened slightly as he opened it, but the tension broke the moment he saw her.

She stood holding a heavy bottle of Barolo in one hand and a rustic bouquet in the other, looking more polished than the soaked creature Eira had described who had stumbled into their cabin, but no less striking.

She wore a cream coloured coat over a burgundy dress, her dark hair pulled back in a loose chignon that exposed the elegant line of her neck.

For a moment they simply stared at each other. Iselin's amber eyes widened as she took him in, not just his size or obvious strength but an intelligence in his gaze and the way he looked at her.

"Iselin," he said, and his voice was deeper than she expected. "I'm Oliver. Welcome to our home."

He stepped aside to let her enter, then took her coat and hung it up before accepting the wine and bouquet with a smile and a "Thank you kindly."

Iselin moved slowly in the hallway, her heels clicking against the stone-tiled floor … then she saw Eira.

The air left her lungs. Eira stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by the warm light of the room as lovely as Iselin remembered; her hair loose around her shoulders and lips curved in that small, knowing smile that had haunted Iselin's dreams.

"Hi," Iselin whispered, suddenly shy.

"Hi yourself," Eira said, descending the stairs and walking forward.

Without hesitation, she reached for Iselin and, cupping her face in both hands, kissed her softly; a greeting that was both innocent and charged with promise.

When she pulled back, her thumbs stroked Iselin's cheekbones. "You came."

"I’ve wanted to for a long time."

Oliver closed the door, and the lock clicked with finality.

Handing the bouquet to Eira, he turned to Iselin and said, "Come on," his hand finding the small of her back, guiding her forward with a polite touch.

Their home occupied four floors, and Oliver led her up the stairs with Eira following behind; the space opened onto a large living room area.

"Let’s get you a drink. Eira tells me you like red".

The place was a blend of academic sensibilities; books everywhere, art on the walls, thick rugs, fresh flowers, and a visible kitchen that looked designed for serious cooking.

Iselin followed them, liking the way they moved together, the touches and the unconscious synchronicity of a long married couple.

Oliver laid the Barolo in the wine cabinet, then, from another bottle, he uncorked and poured a crimson pool into three glasses. The rich berry and herb aroma of the old-vine Burgundy filled the space between them before he handed a glass to Iselin.

Their fingers brushed, and she felt the spark of it travel up her arm.

Passing a glass to Eira, he lifted his own and raising it said, "To reunions".

"Reunions," Eira added.

They drank, and Iselin felt the wine warm her throat, loosening a little of the nervousness that had been building since she’d started her journey.

They settled onto the sofas, Iselin perched on the edge of one with Eira beside her and Oliver across from them in a recliner.

"Tell us about your studies," Oliver said, his gaze never leaving her face. "Eira said you're an art student."

Iselin nodded, finding her voice. "I'm in my final year at the Kunstakademiet in Bergen. Sculpture primarily, though I've been experimenting with installation work."

"Sculpture." Oliver leaned forward, interested. "What materials?"

"Clay, mostly, some stone. I'm fascinated by the relationship between the human form and the natural world. How we carve ourselves into landscapes, how landscapes carve themselves into us."

She paused, realising she was rambling. "That probably sounds pretentious."

"Not at all," Oliver said. "It sounds like something Eira would say. She has a theory that the cabin shapes everyone who stays there."

"The cabin reveals who you already are," Eira corrected softly. "It doesn't shape, it uncovers."

The conversation flowed from there, easier than Iselin expected.

She learned that Oliver was a retired oil executive with an interest in photography, but his real passion was cooking; he spoke about food with intensity, describing the menu he’d planned for them: lobster that he and Eira had brought fresh in from the sea yesterday and the lamb sourced from a local farmer.

He had a nice sense of humour and was self-deprecating, nothing like the intimidating figure his size suggested.

He asked Iselin about her family: divorced parents, an older brother in Bergen, a childhood spent between cities, and listened with interest, asking follow-up questions that showed he was paying attention.

Eira watched them both with a feeling of contentment. She had been slightly concerned if they’d click, concerned that Iselin would be intimidated, concerned too that the chemistry that had crackled between them both in the mountain cabin would fizzle in the reality of everyday life.

But watching them, she saw the way Iselin's shoulders relaxed and the way Oliver's eyes softened when he laughed at something she said.

The food was light but perfect. He’d made Cullen Skink, a delightful Scottish soup, creamy and rich with smoked haddock and potatoes, served with crusty bread and good butter.

They ate at the dining table, the candles lit and the wine flowing.

Iselin found herself telling them things she hadn't told anyone: her fear that she wasn't talented enough for the art world, her complicated relationship with her father and her habit of getting lost both literally and figuratively.

"I think," Oliver said, refilling her glass, "that getting lost is sometimes a good way to find where you need to be."

Iselin looked at him, then at Eira. "Is that what you think happened to me? At the cabin?"

"I think," Eira said, reaching across the table to take her hand, "that you found something you needed … something we needed."

The silence that followed was heavy with possibility. Oliver cleared his throat, setting down his wine glass with deliberate care.

"It's getting late," he said. "And the journey probably tired you. We should discuss sleeping arrangements."

Iselin's heart hammered. "I don't want to impose …"

"You're not imposing," Oliver interrupted gently. "But we might want to be clear about expectations. We have a guest room ready for you with its own bathroom. You are welcome to stay there, and we will respect your privacy completely. You can leave tomorrow, or Sunday, or next week, and we’ll both be satisfied with the time you choose to be here."

"Or," he continued, "you could stay with us. In our room, in our bed. No expectations or obligations. Just … proximity, comfort. Whatever feels right."

Iselin felt Eira's thumb stroke her palm, back and forth, a rhythmic caress. She looked at this accomplished couple who were offering her something she hadn't been convinced she wanted until this moment, something terrifying but … tempting.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she whispered.

Oliver nodded and said, "Then let me show you where you can freshen up. There’s a shower with more than enough room for three, if you don't mind conserving water."

The suggestion hung in the air, blatant and thrilling. Iselin felt her face flush, but she didn't look away. "I think," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, "that I would like that very much."

The bathroom was spacious, with a floor tiled in heated slate and a rainfall shower that occupied most of one wall. Eira lit candles around the space, dozens of them, casting flickering shadows that made the room feel like a sanctuary.

Steam curled from the shower, scented with eucalyptus and … something she couldn’t quite name.

Iselin stood in the centre of the room with Eira behind her and Oliver in front. He was taking the lead, his natural authority asserting itself, but he checked himself constantly, watching Iselin's reactions and seeking consent in every gesture.

"Do you mind?" he asked, his hands hovering at the zipper of her dress.

"No," Iselin breathed.

He undressed her slowly, revealing her inch by inch.

The burgundy dress fell away, then her bra and panties, until she stood naked before them.

He didn't rush, his gaze traveling over her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the dark triangle between her legs.

Then he went to Eira, kissed and undressed his wife with the same care until both women stood naked before him.

"A vision," he murmured. "Both of you."

He removed his own clothes, revealing a body that spoke of discipline - broad shoulders, a chest dusted with hair, a stomach that was flat and firm, and below that, his already half-hard cock, thick and heavy against his thigh.

Iselin couldn't look away. Eira noticed and smiled, taking Iselin's hand and leading her toward the shower. "Come on," she said. "Let’s take care of you."

The water was blissfully hot and the three of them fitted together in the open enclosure.

Oliver reached for the soap, something handmade - a refreshing herbal and mint blend - and lathered his hands.

He started with Iselin, his large hands gentle as he washed her shoulders, working his way down with methodical care. When he reached her breasts, he paused, looking into her eyes for permission, and when she nodded, he cupped them, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened against his palms.

Eira moved behind her, her smaller hands taking shampoo from a shelf in the wall, working it into Iselin's hair, massaging her scalp with circular motions.

Iselin swayed between them, surrounded by heat and water and care, feeling Oliver's erection press against her as he pulled her close, feeling Eira's breasts against her back, four hands moving over her body with worshipful attention.

They washed each other in turn, Iselin tentatively exploring Oliver's body, feeling the hard muscle of his chest, the strength in his thighs and the weight of his cock in her curious hand.

She washed Eira with more confidence, knowing already what she liked, where she was sensitive and how to make her gasp.

By the time they stepped out of the shower, toweling themselves dry, the atmosphere was charged with an electricity that needed little conversation.

Eira took a new toothbrush from a drawer and handed it to Iselin, and after they’d brushed their teeth, took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

Oliver followed a few minutes later, closing the door behind him.

The room was dominated by a huge bed covered in white linens glowing in candlelight.

Eira guided Iselin to the edge of the bed and sat her down, then Oliver came and knelt before her, a powerful man on his knees, looking up at her with hunger.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his hands resting on her knees. "Tell me how to touch you."

Iselin looked at Eira, who had climbed onto the bed and was reclining against the headboard, watching them with interested eyes. "I want," Iselin said, her voice trembling, "I want you both. Together."

Oliver smiled, a slow predatory expression. "That can be arranged. But first …" He pushed her knees apart, spreading her open and lowered his head.

His mouth was hot and skilled, his tongue finding her clit with unerring accuracy. Iselin cried out, her hands flying to his head and gripping tight as he licked her with slow, deliberate strokes.

He was in no hurry as he explored her, tasting every fold, circling her entrance before plunging his tongue deep, then returning to her clit with a pressure that made her see stars.

Eira watched, her hand moving between her legs, fingers circling her pussy in time with Oliver's movements.

"Look at him," she murmured to Iselin. "Look how he loves to taste. He's been talking of this, you know. Of your flavour, of making you come apart on his tongue."

Iselin was close, the buildup of months of fantasy, of the bus journey anticipation, of the evening's tension all coiling tight in her core.

When Oliver slid his fingers into her and curled them, she shattered.

She came with a cry that was almost a sob, hips bucking against his face, body convulsing with pleasure.

He didn't stop. He gentled his movements, licking her through the aftershocks, drawing out her pleasure until she was limp and trembling.

Then he rose, his chin glistening with her arousal, and climbed onto the bed.

"My turn," Eira said.

Iselin slid up the bed, and Eira moved between her legs, replacing Oliver's mouth with her own, her technique different, softer, more teasing, her tongue fluttering against Iselin's oversensitive clit until Iselin was writhing, hypersensitive but unable to stop, climbing toward another peak.

Oliver moved behind Eira, positioning himself at her pussy entrance and thrusting into her in one smooth motion, causing her to cry out against Iselin's pussy, the vibration sending Iselin over the edge again.

They moved like that, Eira eating Iselin while Oliver fucked Eira, the chain of pleasure connecting them.

When Eira came, screaming into Iselin's thigh, Oliver held himself deep inside her… then pulled out and turned his attention to Iselin, his cock slick with his wife's arousal, pressing against Iselin's entrance.

"Yes," Iselin begged, her hands reaching for him. "Please, I want you inside me."

Eira moved off, and he entered Iselin slowly, carefully, his size stretching her in a way that bordered on pain but quickly melted into pleasure.

She was so wet and so ready that he sank in to the hilt, groaning at the tight heat of her. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath mingling with hers.

"Okay?" he whispered.

"Yes," she gasped. "Move. Please, move."

He began to move, slow and deep, then building speed as her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist.

Eira recovered enough to move beside them, her hands roaming over both their bodies, her mouth finding Iselin's nipple, then Oliver's shoulder, tasting them both.

"Harder," Iselin begged, and Oliver complied, his thrusts becoming more powerful, almost brutal, driving her into the mattress.

Iselin was consumed by the overwhelming sensation of being filled.

"Come now," Oliver commanded, his voice strained. "Come on my cock, Iselin. Let me feel you."

Her third orgasm ripped through her with devastating force, her inner muscles clamping down on him so hard that he couldn't hold back any longer.

With a groan that sounded like her name, he came, pulsing deep inside her and filling her with heat, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs, sweat and racing hearts. Eira curled around them both, her hand gently stroking his ass and murmuring words of affection.

Oliver withdrew slowly, his cum beginning to leak from Iselin's swollen cunt, and Eira whispered, "Welcome home, ptarmigan," to Iselin, who, drifting in a haze of pleasure and belonging, knew she had found something special.

SATURDAY

Morning dawned clear and cold, with autumn showing its colours through the windows.

Iselin woke between them, Eira's back pressed against her front, Oliver's arm heavy across her waist. She stirred, and Oliver's hand caressed her bare thigh.

"Good morning," he murmured, with a voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," she whispered.

Eira turned, facing them now, her eyes still closed but her smile present. "Coffee," she mumbled. "Then more of this."

Oliver laughed and kissed Iselin's shoulder. "I'll make the coffee. You two stay here. Keep each other company."

He climbed out of bed naked, unconcerned with his nudity, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

Iselin watched him go, admiring the way his back muscles moved, the strength in him.

Eira opened her eyes and caught her looking.

"He's magnificent, isn't he?" Eira said, her hand tracing lazy patterns on Iselin's hip.

"You're both magnificent," Iselin replied. "I feel like I'm dreaming."

"Not a dream," Eira said, leaning in to kiss her.

They made love slowly, unhurried, Eira's fingers bringing Iselin to a gentle peak that left her trembling and tearful with emotion.

Oliver returned with coffee and croissants, and they ate in bed, crumbs on the sheets, laughing about everything and nothing, the ease between them feeling like something that had been built over a long time.

They showered and dressed eventually, Iselin in borrowed clothes that smelled different, a thermal T-shirt under a soft sweater and jeans that fit surprisingly well, and finding out she had the same size shoe as Eira, a pair of sturdy hiking boots.

They left home and walked in nature for hours without meeting another soul, the three of them, through autumn woods with the air crisp and smelling of pine.

They talked about everything, politics, art, rugby, football, the proper way to prepare lutefisk (which Oliver insisted was a skill every Norwegian needed, though Iselin, knowing he was proudly Scottish, suspected he was teasing).

They stopped at a clearing overlooking the fjord, the water far below a deep blue-grey, sailboats dotting the distant horizon.

Oliver produced a blanket from his backpack and spread it on the ground, and they sat together, Iselin between them.

Then, with no surprise to anyone, he produced what every Norwegian took with them when out in nature: a thermos filled with coffee, three oranges, and the obligatory six-pack of Kvikk Lunsj.

"I’d love to paint this," Iselin said, looking out at the view. "All of it. The three of us. This moment."

"Then paint it," Eira said. "We can pose for you."

"Naked?" Iselin asked, smiling.

"Obviously naked," Oliver replied. "Artistic integrity demands it."

They laughed, but the suggestion hung in the air, charged with possibility.

Back at the house, Oliver prepared a lunch of lobster Eggs Benedict together with a condensation-beaded glass of chilled Chablis.

The domesticity of it all felt surreal to Iselin as Eira told stories about Oliver's cooking and the way he hummed classical music when he thought no one was listening.

"He's formidable in business though," Eira said, her eyes fond. "Or, at least he was. I've seen otherwise confident men quieten and become very attentive when he’s in a room".

"And yet he cooks and hums and kneels at your feet," Iselin observed.

"Real love is fascinating when it's given," Eira said softly.

"He has mine completely … and it looks like you’re starting to like him."

Iselin nodded, unable to speak, the truth of it settling in her chest like a warm stone.

Later that evening, dinner was magnificent. He had marinated lamb chops in rosemary and garlic, grilled to perfect pinkness and served them with roasted potatoes and a salad of arugula and pear.

They ate at the dining table again, but the atmosphere was noticeably different now, charged with intimacy and knowledge of each other's bodies.

Oliver's foot found Iselin's under the table and his toes stroked her ankle, while Eira fed her bites of potato from her own fork.

After dinner, he cleared the plates and returned with a bottle of champagne. "To celebrate," he said, pouring three glasses.

"What are we celebrating?" Iselin asked.

"New beginnings," he said, clinking his glass against Eira’s, then hers. "The start of something. Whatever this is."

They drank, and Iselin felt the bubbles tickle her nose, the alcohol warming her.

The weekend became a blur of sensation and emotion. The women made love in various rooms, in the shower again and on the sofa while the rain lashed at the windows on Saturday night.

They learned each other's rhythms: how Oliver liked to be ridden, his hands gripping hips hard enough to bruise; how Eira could come multiple times if loved with enough patience; how Iselin sobbed when she was overwhelmed, tears of joy as she climaxed.

"I want to do this again," Iselin said. "Not just the sex. Though the sex is... transcendent. But this, all of it. The walks, the cooking … the sleeping together."

Eira reached for her hand and said, "This doesn't have to be a one-time thing, Iselin, not if you don’t want it to be."

"I want..." Iselin hesitated, searching for words. "I want to be with you both, however you'll have me, whenever you'll have me."

Oliver set down his glass, his expression serious. "We're both glad if this isn’t just a casual fling, Iselin. We like you, and we value you, and we think we could be real friends. You’re someone we could come to be close to, someone who means something."

"It means everything," Iselin whispered. "It already feels very much like it does."

SUNDAY

Morning arrived too soon. They lay in bed with grey light filtering through the windows, none of them wanting to move or break the spell.

But Iselin had class on Monday, obligations waiting in the world beyond this bubble.

They showered together one last time and dressed, then ate in the kitchen, touching often, not wanting to stop.

"I called you a taxi," Oliver said. "Should be here soon".

"You can come and stay here anytime, Iselin. A weekend, a week or … a couple of weeks vacation if you like. Come back whenever you want, anytime you want and assuming we aren’t away travelling, we’ll be delighted to see you." Eira added.

"I will," Iselin said. "I promise."

A half hour later, the taxi driver called Oliver’s mobile to let him know he was outside.

At the door, they stood together and the moment was heavy with emotion.

Oliver cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

Eira wrapped her arms around her from behind, pressing kisses to her neck and her shoulder, whispering words that Iselin felt in her bones.

"I'll call," Iselin said, her voice thick. "As soon as I'm home."

"Do that … let us know you’re home safe," Oliver said, his thumb brushing tears from her cheek. "I got your mobile number from Eira, and when you’ve left, I’ll send some money into your Vipps account."

"Oliver, please don’t embarrass me, I can’t take money from you".

"Iselin, the last thing we want to do is embarrass you, but we know what you coming here and going home again cost you, and it doesn’t sit right with either of us that you should need to use so much to visit us.

Your current income isn’t our income. We have loved you being here, and we want you to come back when you want to without it being a financial strain."

"But …"

"Let’s say this once and never mention it again. I’ve had an account with this taxi company for a good number of years because of work when I used them often.

It’s already paid for; it’s a long way to the station, and next time we know you’re coming, we’ll send your return bus or plane tickets to your phone and have a taxi meet you because we don’t want travel costs to ever be a reason that you hesitate."

There were tears in her amber eyes as they both held her until she had to pull away.

With one last look, one last touch of hands, Iselin turned and walked to the cab, out into the cold, carrying with her the memory of a weekend she’d never forget.

They both stood there until she was gone, their arms around each other.

The weekend hadn't been an interruption to their love story but rather the beginning of a new and exciting chapter.

Iselin stared out the taxi window, her hand softly caressing the ptarmigan.

She was already deeply in thought, planning her return.